Order
by Stefan-sama
Summary: The Lord's Passion, told through the eyes of a Roman soldier.


**I'd like to clarify to begin with that I don't think too much of this story. It really isn't that good in my eyes. Anyway, I wrote this while looking in particular at John for the trial, and Mark and Luke for the crucifixion (New American versions), so if you have a problem with continuity, take it up with them. Along those lines, I am also aware of all the scholarly points raised, such as the "Barrabas" could have been a name for Jesus, but I am Catholic and going with my tradition, so deal with it. Mind you, please don't be offended or take it too seriously, I'm pretty darn sure a lot of this didn't happen. For sure, though, the Passion did, and I am writing this in homage of that. At the time of writing this, it's only a few days until Easter Sunday. Happy Easter, then, everyone.**

**Order**

Protect order. That was the one thing that was constantly drilled into our young, impressionable minds. Protect order, for order was the one thing that could uphold the laws and traditions of the Roman people. Order, order, order, they would make us repeat, until our throats were sore and parched and we cried out for water. Protect order until your dying breath.

That was the excuse the Sanhedrin and that troublemaker Annas gave us when they brought that man before the courts. This man would disrupt order, they claimed, producing evidence and testimony after testimony. All pointed directly toward his guilt. It was perfect, too perfect, and indeed from the nervous glances they would make at each other nearly screamed forgery.

But, of course, no one cared. After all, the crowds were rioting. Unless something was done, and that "something" was the immediate and painful execution of this man, order would be thrown out the window in favor of city-wide chaos.

None of us knew why the man was worth such a big deal. He was, as they claimed, the Messiah, or to be more accurate, the false Messiah, but why they would stop at nothing to kill him we had no idea. Jews were nothing but trouble anyway, to put it one way, as a fellow trainee had said. Yes, many held that thought among our rank.

But we were paid, and paid handsomely. Our salaries were nothing to sneeze at, but bags of silver would be passed discreetly from Jewish hand to Roman hand under the table. It worked, too. He was voted unanimously guilty, despite the law going so far to prevent such a thing from happening. We thought it was laughable that the ones that were supposed to stop bribery were so often the first to take it.

I myself thought there was no way this man could be treated a criminal, and certainly I was not the only one with that sentiment. He was too soft. He would take accusations, take abuse, take the weight of the world, yet still do nothing but claim his innocence. And His eyes, His eyes, they pierced right through me, unwavering. They were unnaturally wise, as if He knew something none of us did, and that something would most likely change the world as we knew it.

Thankfully, lord Pilate also had his suspicions, and took the man to his chambers in private. We soldiers stood outside the oaken door of the praetorium, waiting with bated breath and listening in to snippets of the interrogation. Nothing we could hear was important, save the words "king" and "truth", and when the doors burst open we scurried like mice away from the angered Pilate.

The procurator strode forward angrily, thrusting the condemned to the balcony for all the crowds below to see. "_Ecce Homo_- Behold the man!" he shouted, and, in fact, some would call it a scream. "I find no guilt in him!" The crowds shouted back at him with unbelievable force. From the pillars we hid behind, we could see the tortured look on Pilate's face as he waved his hand over the other man, addressing the throng. "But you Jews have a custom on your feast of Passover to release a prisoner unto you. Shall I release to you the King of the Jews?!"

"Barabbas, Barabbas! Give us Barabbas!" came the reply.

We looked at each other worriedly, for the man they had named was a revolutionary, some might say even a terrorist. Surely his infinite confinement was the best thing for order to be kept, we thought, but as we soon found out, it was not to be. He was dangerous, yes, extremely so, but we all knew that mobs were also very dangerous in their own right, and that danger was one that Pilate felt.

He threw the man at our feet, still angry, and ordered us to scourge him. We brought him back into the praetorium. I, and a few others with me, were all for leaving Him be, but one of our number struck Him, and He fell to the ground as we looked about in confusion for the perpetrator. But it was too late, for the damage was done, and another hit Him, and yet another, until we were no better than the mob shouting outside. We scourged Him hard, and scourged Him we did. Horrifically enough, some even seemed to be enjoying it.

In the middle of our "fun", however, our commander came forward. I was relieved, for I had always thought of him as a just, kind and honest man. Then he brought forward a crown of thorns and a purple cloak, crowning the man even as he stood drenched in his own blood. Worst of all, he stepped back, admiring his work. "Hail, King of the Jews!" he shouted, and soon the entire company was taking up the chant. "Hail, King of the Jews, Hail, King of the Jews, Hail, King of the Jews!!!"

By this point, He was brought out again, for Pilate hoped His suffering would appease the crowd. By no means was this hope correct, for when the crowd saw him they yelled yet louder "Crucify him, crucify him!"

"Why? What wrong has this man done?!"

Even louder came the reply. "Crucify him, crucify him!"

In disgust, Pilate washed his hands then and there, in front of the people, and as he retired to his chambers he handed Him to us to be crucified. I stood back, separating myself from the others, but no one paid me any mind, for they were all too busy stripping Him of his garments and preparing the cross for His death.

They forced the wooden beams upon Him with such vehement force I was sure His back would break, and still they whipped Him to increase his burden on the dark procession to Golgotha, the place of the skull. I had the horrible responsibility of choosing yet another innocent man from the mourning crowd to help the condemned carry His load, for already He had fallen to the dust. A Cyrenean I chose, a strong, tough-looking man, and the two carried the cross still. Out of mercy, I held the rest of my fellows back to allow Him a chance to meet His mother and the women and children He held so dear. It came to me as He was speaking to them that He was not being consoled, rather, He was the one consoling, and I could not fathom how this was possible. I was struck for this, yes, but the others were satisfied, for twice more He fell as He proceeded up the hill.

When we reached the destination, the others gleefully nailed Him to the cross, a dreadful clack and cry of pain for each stroke of the hammer. I, as a follower of Pilate, wrote the inscription hanging above him and attached it to the cross. "Jesus Nazorean, King of the Jews" it read, and many Pharisees watching rebuked me for it, though I ignored it.

We put Him up in the middle of two other men, and in that dreadful moaning characteristic to crucifixions they conversed, though none of us were paying them any mind. He was offered wine and myrrh, perhaps one final taunt, but refused it. None of us were paying attention to that, either, for the company was casting lots for the royal cloth He had wore. It sickened me, to think they could in engage in such activity at this time, so I again separated myself, but that did not help, either, for wherever I went there was someone taunting Him.

Suddenly it became dark, for no reason anyone could see, as it was yet noon. We looked up at the condemned, and His face was the most agonized it had been yet. We waited breathlessly for minutes, hours for some sign of anything.

I for one had taken enough, and I stood up and whirled around, yelling at my comrades and brothers. "Why is this innocent man hanging there in pain? What wrong has he done? Why have we, defenders of the people, killed him in cold blood?!"

I searched their eyes desperately for some flicker of emotion, of agreement, but I came up with nothing at all. They stared back at me, food hanging from their mouths, their eyebrows raised. "Why do you care?" one asked. "It's none of our business. They found him guilty, so we crucify him."

There was a murmur of agreement and much nodding in our number. "Indeed. We get paid well enough, it shouldn't matter what we do."

"Justice isn't perfect, you know."

I screamed, but was interrupted by a bloodcurdling, earsplitting cry from above. The man tilted his head back to the sky, and with a loud intake of breath let out His pain. "_Eloi, eloi, lema sabachtani_?!" He cried, and with one last cry His head fell, slumping to His chest, and all could tell His spirit had left Him.

The moment He fell, the earth began to tremble, and fearfully we clung to one another. Trees fell, rocks split, and the very ground we stood upon nearly caved in, and as quickly as the tremor had come, it stopped.

Through the dust, a centurion from another division stepped over the chaos, dropping his spear to the ground and casting his helmet away as he gazed at the silent figure. "Truly, this man was the Son of God!" he said softly.

Rising up from behind me, the commander pushed me aside and pointed his finger accusingly at the officer. "He was an upstart and troublemaker! Had he succeeded, all of Rome would have been destroyed!" The men shouted their agreement. "Anyone who sides with him should be put to death! This centurion will plunge order into chaos: kill him!"

"Wait!" I yelled back, running to the man and shielding him. "He has done no wrong, and neither has the condemned! Lay not a hand on this man!"

He sneered. "Traitors of the Empire, both of them. Order shall not be kept with them them taste the same agony the crucified have! Death to them both!" The men cheered. I do not know if they were crazy or bloodthirsty, but they charged at us anyway. The centurion turned and tried to flee, but he was caught in the back by a thrown spear, dead as he fell.

I stood, unresisting, praying.

_Jesus, Son of God, take me into your kingdom_.

The men converged on me, and I fell too, dead.


End file.
